Jack's Guide to a Perfect Relationship
by Unknown Fool
Summary: Jack Bauer is awesome. Just, AWESOME. He's so awesome, he has a plan for everything. Including his love life.


This little story is the bastard child of Captain Devine and I. Repeat: **I didn't write this on my own. Captain Devine and I co-wrote this.**

Disclaimer: I actually own 24. What NOW!!

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I will have had a secret admiration for you for seven months, four days. One week later, I will ask you out for a coffee, strictly professional.

A week, 3 days, 4 hours, 7 seconds and 37 nanoseconds later, I will bring you golden marigolds imported from France, purchased at Sandy's Flower shop on Route 4. You will enjoy them, even though you're allergic.

The next day, same time, you will give me chocolates. Belgian ones. My favorite. Black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream. I will accept them, sharing one, maybe two with you. But they're mine, so sod off.

4 days, 3 hours and 7 seconds later, I will purchase for you a very ugly, stuffed, anorexic capybara with the words "I heart you" written with expensive Japanese silk. You will secretly hate it, but you will not say anything to me, except for one week later, when I ask you where it is, and you will tell me you lost it, even though I know you burned it two days prior in your sister's oven.

Two days later, we will commence an awkward phone call, in which I mention the capybara at least 7 times. I will then nonchalantly ask you what you are doing on Thursday night. You will mention quietly that it is your brother's girlfriend's mother's aunt's "Best Cake" anniversary. I will inquire what the hell that is. You will then explain excitedly that it is when she made the best cake humanly possible. I will then say "oh" dejectedly, then hang up. Your heart will break slightly, and you will speed-dial 6 and announce to my answering machine that you are free Friday night.

Friday night, we will be too formally dressed for the cheap French restaurant that has terrible entrées, but nice desserts. However, I will ruin the evening by recognizing the waiter as a known terrorist. I will bitch-slap him, telling him to "holster his escargot", and save the world.

Eight days later, you will bring me to a bookstore I hate, dragging me to a book singing by the author who wrote a book titled "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Not Holstering Your Weapon". I will hate it, but will not say anything as you hold my hand.

Three months later, I will finally invite you to my apartment/bachelor pad/bat cave. We will make awkward love in my twin-sized bed. You are more aroused by whipped cream than me, but I don't mention it. You leave in the morning, before I wake up, stealing my Special K cereal. I miss it, but don't mention it.

Two months and a week later, you will be kidnapped by a group of French-Guianian terrorists. I save you in the very nick of time, mind you, the _very nick_, in turn saving the world. You reward me with chocolates. Belgian ones. My favorite. Black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream, with cashews. We then have awkward sex again, with chocolate whipped cream that you yet again find more fascinating than my manly physique.

Two weeks later, you meet my daughter Kim and her obnoxious Mexican boyfriend. Bitch-slapping ensues. I apologize for her.

Two weeks, 5 days later (a Tuesday), I take you to the inauguration of the new president, who happens to be my best friend. We then have dinner at the White House, where you realize what a handsome, beautiful, sexy, smart, brave, dangerous, courageous, brilliant, quick (like a fox), strong, tasteful, loving man I am. I romantically propose to you under a full moon, where you do not even think about saying no. You say yes. You hear me? You say YES. Y-E-S.

Three months and 4 seconds (time is of the essence) later, after saving the world again from gay Canadian vampire pirates, I will have "died". You will be devastated, and cry for days. However, you burn my collection of stuffed capybaras, and eat all my chocolates. The Belgian ones. My favorites, black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream, with caramel. Damn you!!

Sixteen weeks later, you will sleep with the president, my best friend. I will hear about this, and my heart will break into 17.895632 pieces. I will feel so used, that not even chocolates can save me. Even Belgian ones. My favorite. Black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream, with almonds. You will become pregnant. I will despise you, but I will not be mad at the president, because I keep dreaming about him. Erotically.

As I question my sexuality 7 months later, you will be in the cemetery staring at my "grave". You will dig it up to have an odd sense of "closure", but will find nuclear weapons where my body should be. You will be shocked, but will give them to CTU. Under no circumstances should you give them to the pirates, even if they offer you chocolates. Belgian ones. My favorite. Black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream, with pecans.

Two months later, I will come back from the "dead", where I will meet your newborn bastard child. I nonchalantly mention that he has the president's eyes. You will look at me with shock and ask how I knew. I will not respond, only look at you with my Jack Bauer (TM) eyes.

A week and 5 minutes later, I save the world again, this time from Australian Dinosaur-riding Cowboys. You will be hanging out of a helicopter, attached to it only by one thin rope. I will re-propose to you, and you will accept again, because you don't want that rope to "slip", do you?

Two weeks later, in a frenzy of hormones and 'kyzzez', we have awkward premarital sex. Again. Afterwards, we have a quarrel, turn shout-fest, because you were yet again more aroused by whipped cream, this time strawberry, than by extreme 'shexayness'. You've also eaten all my chocolate. The Belgian ones. My favorites. Black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream, with nougat. I break off the engagement and run out of the house, wearing only boxers. The silk ones. My favorites. Black capybara magic dream. I call you from a payphone six blocks down, telling you to take your bastard child and run, because there is an "accidental" gas leak. You do so, and I detonate the home to destroy it.

Five weeks, 3 days, 7 hours, 6 minutes, 18 seconds, and 57 nanoseconds later, you receive a letter from me. It explains my current situation. After running away in shame, I met up with my best friend, the president, sill wearing only boxers. The silk ones. My favorite. Black capybara magic dream. Having more sense than you, he takes me into his beautifully tanned arms, dismissing his secret service. Also, still having more sense than you, he is instantly aroused by me (yes, ME), and there is no whipped cream in sight. I rain kisses down his throat, and begin to unbutton his presidential coat. You are shocked and slightly disturbed as I explain the intimate details of our NON-AWKWARD lovemaking. A few months later, President Tony Almeida announces that we are to be wed (in Massachusetts, of course) and becomes the first openly gay president. You watch our marriage and realize you perfect I was. You sob. I win.

Four years later, Tony's term will end, and he will not go for re-election. We will move to the Bahamas and live a fairy-tale life and eat chocolates every day. Belgian ones. My favorite. Black cherry vanilla mocha magic dream, with walnut.

THE END.

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